Hell Night
by Fairady
Summary: Desmond's night just isn't going well at all.


Disclaimer: I own not, though I'd sell what's left of my soul to own some of the wardrobe from the game.

Warnings: Some spoilers if you haven't played the first game?

Notes: From the kink meme, someone wanted the story for Desmond's scar. And someone else said they thought he got it from a customer throwing a Screaming Orgasm at him. Needless to say, the ideas ate my face till I wrote it out.

Hell Night  
by Fairady

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It'd been one hell of a night already and Desmond hated that it was only half over.

Halloween was bad enough on it's own, something about the day just made people loose their damn minds the second they put a costume on. The place was packed and the bar almost literally crushed by a mass of people demanding drinks. An ambulance had already swung by the bar once for an idiot who took his monkey costume too literally, and the owner had to call the police twice. Once for a couple of college kids fighting over a French Maid. The second time for a guy in a fireman outfit trying to set one of the fake palm trees on fire.

The only upside to the night were the tips. He'd already made enough to put in a down-payment on that bike he'd been eying. If he gave in and pulled an extra shift like the owner wanted him to he'd probably be able to pay it all off in cash by the end of the month. All he had to do was power through the rest of the night without _accidentally_ hurting any of the pushy patrons.

Desmond worked as fast as he could while trying not to bump into the other three bartenders working. The space was tight and Desmond wasn't spinning bottles so much as avoiding Erik's feet and dodging Ben's elbows. It was the only way they could hope to keep up with the demand so he didn't complain much. He served beer, cocktails, and straight drinks to a crowd that was growing increasingly less coherent as the night wore on. He made change, kept tips, and did his damnedest to translate drunk demands as he counted down the minutes.

He almost breathed a sigh of relief when the crowd began to thin. One of the rare lulls that'd been sporadic through the night. The costumed masses taking to the streets for some cool air that couldn't be found in the stuffy bar. He almost thought that the rest of the night would be a little bearable, that overtime wouldn't be so bad after all.

But then two different groups of women claimed the section of the bar Desmond was tending and stared demanding service.

_A divorce party and a bachelorette party walk into a bar..._ Desmond forced a smile as he served up Sex Machines and Ball Crushers to the already buzzed women. Instinct gained from five years of tending bars screaming that ithis/i would not end well. He'd learned early on in his career that there was _nothing_ more unmanageable than a group of women high on their own sex appeal and out to get drunk while having a hell of a good time doing it.

Having to serve two groups of them on the wildest night of the year was a disaster just waiting to happen.

It started out alright. Sex Drives, Screw Yous, Wild Sex, and Grounds for Divorce were requested in a steady flow as the two groups acknowledged the other. A friendly competition to get the most outlandish drink started up as the Bride-To-Be and the Ex-To-Be laughed and traded men jokes that made Desmond want to cringe and keep his sensitive bits as far from them as possible.

Desmond discretely "lost" a card with the number of one of the Bachelorettes, and was trying to get one of the Divorcees to keep her _hands_ on the bar and off of him when the shit hit the fan.

"Louis Weir!?"

The Ex-To-Be looked stunned. Her drink slipping and almost spilling as she stared at the Bride-To-Be who smiled and nodded. Desmond could easily see that the dopey expression on her face was the look that new couples got when talking about their partners. Just like he could easily see that the look on the Ex's face was the same one he'd seen so many times on scorned lovers meeting the replacement.

_No fucking way._ Desmond took a large step back thinking that whoever Louis was, he sure as hell worked fast. "Erik-"

"You fucking whore!" The scream easily cut through the noise of music and conversation. Quickly getting all the attention just as the Ex's See You Later Alligator was introduced to the Bride's face.

"Hey, take it outside!" Desmond yelled, for all the good it did him as the two women started fighting and screaming. The crowd thinning out to give them room and shouting encouragement. A few brave men tried to step in, but were immediately attacked by the friends of the fighters. Desmond watched as glasses shattered and the two groups started throwing insults.

His instinct had been right. He only hoped the cops hadn't gotten too far away from the last time they'd been called, because this was escalating just a little too fast.

Desmond was too preoccupied with the main fight, and didn't see as one of the women --tired of the insults-- threw her drink. It missed her target badly, but found another mark.

"Son of a bitch!" Pain exploded across Desmond's face. He dropped to the floor the fight no longer important as he touched his mouth. Fingers exploring the cut that bisected his lips. Blood dripped on the tile and down his fingers. The alcohol burned as he hissed out curses.

"Shit man!" His hands were knocked down and a white towel was pressed to his face as Erik hauled him back up. "Come on, let's get you outta here."

"Oh, fuck!" Desmond followed as he was pushed through the door into the small kitchen, the sounds of the fight fading as the door slammed shut.

"Hey, the fuck's going on?" Ali looked up from the fryer and Desmond found himself being pushed down on the one rickety chair the cook used.

"He got smacked by a loball," Erik said, and Desmond almost got back up to deck him because the asshole was _laughing_.

"What've I told you about getting smart with the customers?" Ali sighed as he pulled Desmond's hands away. The older man had huge hands scared by the oil, but they were very careful as he pulled the towel away. "Erik, get water. That looks like it hurts, Des."

"No shit!" Desmond winced as fingers prodded around the right side of his mouth. He spat out a mouthful of blood not giving a damn about health regulations. "Fucking cat fight, had nothing to do with me!"

"Sure, sure," Ali grinned still prodding his face. Desmond spat out a few more muffled curses about the man's dubious family before he pulled back. "You're lucky, no glass to pull out."

"Here," Erik passed over a glass of water and watched as Ali began to pour it over the cut. "You're going to need stitches for that."

"No way!" Desmond almost stood up, but Ali grabbed his face to hold him still. The water hurt as it rolled down his face and soaked into his shirt, but it also took most of the stinging alcohol away with it. "No, I'm not going to a damn hospital."

"Gonna leave a scar if it's not stitched, Des," Ali set the glass down and pressed the towel back to the cut.

"Don't care," no way in hell was Desmond going to a hospital over _this_. Too many questions and no way to leave without having some sort of paper trail. "Just put some tape over it or something."

Erik snorted but Ali only nodded. Dark eyes studying him questioningly. Desmond was pretty sure that Ali wasn't in the country legally, for all that the man had no accent to speak of. He was the only other guy who got his paycheck in cash, and had no phone number to give the owner. "Get the first aid kit, Erik. We got butterfly bandages that'll work as long as you can keep your mouth shut long enough to heal."

"Yeah, thanks," Desmond didn't bother responding to the jab. The sharp pain was fading into a dull throb that was even worse. "And some Jack! My face is killing me."

"You and everyone else, Des," Ali turned back to the fryers, dumping out a greasy pile of onion rings.

Desmond closed his eyes and rested his head against the metal counter as Erik left. He didn't care about whatever conclusions Ali might have drawn. It was past time for Desmond to move to a new city anyway.

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End file.
